


i found peace in your violence

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Season 2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (can't tell me there's no point in trying)In 1922, Grace Macmillian meets one Thomas Shelby. 'It might be the alcohol, it might be the cigarette smoke, it might be the loneliness that settled somewhere deep inside her nine years ago and refused to leave, but Grace wants him.'





	i found peace in your violence

**Author's Note:**

> Back at it again with a Tommy & Grace fic as my holiday gift to you all.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this s2 AU, and thank you all so much for the support you've shown me for my often incredulous PB fics. I'm officially written over 30k of PB fic with this fic, and I don't see myself stopping anytime soon, so thanks x1000 for humouring me <3 <3 <3 
> 
> The lines you recognise from the show obviously belong to SK -- who is frustrating in that he can write such beautiful things like Tommy's teasing of Grace in 1x06 but still stuff up characterisation so immensely!!!
> 
> Anyways, enjoy <3

In 1913, a nearly twenty year old Grace Burgess becomes Grace Macmillian. Clive is the son of one of her mother’s oldest friends, the newlywed Macmillians having emigrated to America years before their son was born. Her wedding day is the first day Grace ever looks upon on the man she is to spend the rest of her life with, their respective mothers having arranged the match via their frequent correspondence, elated by the possibility of finally joining their families. If she could be bothered, Grace suspects she would be furious about it.

But what choice does she have, really? If she refuses to wed Clive, then her father will merely arrange for her to marry someone else… and at least marrying Clive means the opportunity for a new life in America. She loves her family, she does, but she has always thought she would love them more if there were an entire ocean between them.

Clive is handsome enough, with dark hair and equally as dark eyes, and he speaks to her, not at her. They had only been wed for a few hours at most, but there have surely been worse marriages arranged, she thinks. He beds her carefully, as if she is made from porcelain, and she longs to dig her nails into the nape of his neck, longs to show him that she’s not some fragile thing that needs to be protected, but that wouldn’t be ladylike, would it? Instead she lets him slowly thrust into her over and over again until he is sated, and lies awake until the dawn light streams in through the window of her childhood bedroom, her husband snoring beside her. In the morning, she washes the blood from her thighs and plasters a smile onto her lips when Clive wakes, blinking in the sunshine.

The next day, they board a ship to America with Clive’s parents, and she cannot help but shed a few tears for the only life she has ever known, a handkerchief belonging to her husband firmly pressed to her eyes.

\---

At twenty-nine, Grace Helen Burgess Macmillian is deeply unhappy.

As a belated gift for their ninth anniversary, Clive announces that they shall be taking a trip to London. Grace plasters a smile on her lips in response, stretching forward to place a kiss on his cheek, but she isn’t a fool. She knows Clive has business in London, business born of a desire to expand his contacts outside of America. It seems as though their already exorbitant wealth isn’t enough for her husband, even though the diamond that dangles from her ring finger is so large it often hurts to wear it for extended periods of time.

Whilst Clive deals with his business, Grace suspects that her husband will arrange appointments of her own for her to attend. They have been wed for nine years, and Clive’s initial enthusiasm in the marriage bed may have diminished to twice weekly encounters, but there is still naught to show for their efforts, no reward for his silent determination. Every month she bleeds, and she has long since hardened herself to the sight of blood on her thighs.  It didn’t worry them for the first few years of their marriage, not when they were still so young, but as the months turned into years and nothing changed, they began to seek help. And now, it seems as though Clive has realised that the advice they have previously been given is completely useless, with her husband apparently of the mind that London doctors shall be the remedy to all their ailments.

Grace humours him, if only for the chance to temporarily leave New York. She is sick of being judged by everyone she encounters for her childless status. She is tired of pretending to be happy spending her days in a mindless haze, tired of smiling at just the right moment and laughing at Clive’s terrible jokes.

She is tired, in short, of being Mrs. Clive Macmillian.

\---

Grace notices the man almost as soon as he enters the London restaurant, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He reaches up to take off the cap neatly pulled over his head, revealing a mess of dark hair and shaven sides. She is seated alone at a table close to the entrance, Clive having left the table as soon as the meal was over in favour of smoking cigars with his business associates. Perhaps that is why the man walks over to her, brushing off an over-eager waiter somewhat curtly, his actions making Grace think he must be of importance within this establishment. She must make an appealing picture, blonde curls brushing her neck, lips painted pink and eyelids darkened. Grace watches the man slowly approach her, unable to properly breathe. It must be the cut of her dress that has rendered her breathless, she thinks.

Clive’s seat might still be warm from her husband’s hasty exit, but the man seats himself in it comfortably, without bothering to ask her if she minds. Grace notes the cut of his suit, the pocket-watch dangling from his waist. This man obviously has money, but he was not born into it like Clive was.  She observes the hardness in his eyes, the set of his jaw, and finds herself longing to find out how exactly a man such as he has risen to such heights. She isn’t a fool, she knows this restaurant is much more than what it appears. Clive might have been far too enamoured with his meal to realise, but after being prodded and questioned by doctors for hours on end, Grace’s appetite had been more than lacking, and she’d entertained herself by watching the other diners, one man cheerfully threatening another, a woman using a piece of chalk to draw a line on the bottom of her shoe and moments later, departing with a much older man.

The man offers her a cigarette and upon the shake of her head lights the one still dangling from his lips. “Thomas Shelby,” he finally offers as a means of introduction, swirling the whisky that had wordlessly been placed down in front of him. Her own drink, on the other hand, is nearly empty. His voice is compelling, much softer than she’d expected it to be.

She looks directly at him, this Thomas Shelby exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke as she continues to unabashedly study him. He isn’t conventionally attractive in the way that Clive is, not with his sharp cheekbones and somewhat sunken eyes, but there is something about him. It might be the alcohol, it might be the cigarette smoke, it might be the loneliness that settled somewhere deep inside her nine years ago and refused to leave, but Grace wants him. She knows it is wrong, sinful even, but she has just suffered through the judgement of various doctors, all of them believing that she is the reason her husband does not yet have a son. If she wants another man, someone other than the husband who finds cigars more appealing than her company, then really, who can blame her?

“Grace Macmillian,” she says in reply, draining the last of her glass. The port is sweet on her tongue, but Thomas Shelby’s whiskey looks far more appealing. 

“You’re Irish,” Thomas observes, inhaling his cigarette. “The Irish were meant to come to our rescue. During the war,” he clarifies, before scoffing, a harsh sound. “They took their bloody time about it.” Another easy inhale later, he questions her, “Did your father serve?”

She shakes her head, refusing to be unnerved by his sharp gaze. “Only my brother. But they’re both dead now,” she informs him, as if he cares at all about her loss. Her father and brother, gone within weeks of one another.

Of course, it had been months before she received the news in America, and by then funerals had already been taken place. Her brother had died in combat, proclaimed as a hero, and her father had been killed in his sleep, her mother waking to blooded sheets. Clive had offered to go back to Ireland with her, had begged her to return home, if only for a short while, but Grace had refused. She could mourn just as well from New York, and without her father and brother, home was far from appealing, her mother rendered silent by her grief. By the end of the war, she was dead too.

Thomas Shelby does not reply, and so there is a lull in conversation. The over-eager waiter approaches their table and after Thomas snatches the bottle of whiskey off the man and fills up his own glass, Grace dares to take the bottle from him to fill her own empty glass, their fingers brushing as she removes the bottle from Thomas’ grasp. The whiskey burns a little when she sips at it, but she welcomes the sensation.

“Are you a whore?” Thomas Shelby asks her, unblinking as he speaks. “Because if you are, I have a room.”

Without flinching Grace shows him her left hand, her ring finger weighed down by the diamond ring placed there well over nine years ago. A whore indeed. “I beg your pardon Mr. Shelby,” she manages to say, although a part of her longs to pour her drink over him. She doesn’t dare waste such good whiskey. “I am a married woman.”

He shrugs, swallowing half his glass in one swift motion. “Married, eh? That hasn’t stopped anyone before,” he remarks, stubbing out his cigarette on the small saucer Clive hadn’t bothered to use. The grey ash is stark against the white china. He leans back in the chair and looks at her, mouth pursed in thought. “If you aren’t a whore, then why exactly are you in this restaurant? Alone, might I add.”

Grace quirks a brow at him, inhaling sharply. “What does one generally do in a restaurant Mr. Shelby?” she queries. He doesn’t answer, so she continues, left hand wrapped around her glass. “My husband and I are in town for a short while, and we’re staying at a hotel not too far from here. I’m alone because as soon as the meal was over, my husband left me to go smoke cigars and talk business.” She sips at her whiskey in an attempt to swallow the lump that has settled in her throat, feeling far more exposed than she would like to be.

“Why are you in town?” Thomas further questions, idly checking the time on his pocket watch. It has just gone half seven, and Grace suspects Clive will not be finished for another hour or so yet. She does wonder, how would he react if he decided to come back to their table and found her with another man, Thomas Shelby occupying Clive’s chair more comfortably than she has ever seen her husband sit, his childhood etiquette lessons ensuring his back is forever ramrod straight, elbows never touching the table.

Grace downs the rest of her drink before replying. “I’m seeing a doctor,” she says, bluntly. “Doctors, I suppose.” Thomas doesn’t press for any more information, but she finds herself sharing it regardless, despite her previous discomfort. “I’m been married for nearly nine years, and I’ve nothing to show for it. Nine years, without any children. Without even so much as a hope of a child.” She shakes her head, a little roughly, her blonde curls loosened by the motion. “They all laugh at me, I know they do. They judge me for my failure, when I’m not even certain that it’s my fault.”

Thomas is silent, his face blank. Without anything to occupy her hands, she laces her fingers together, cursing herself silently for sharing so much information with a man she has only just met. She has never dared to suggest to Clive that the fault for their childless state might lie with him. She has never dared to ever voice such a thought, not when her husband has proven himself capable at everything else in his life. But now, she has just told this stranger her deepest secret, without even a moment of reservation. She reaches for the bottle of whiskey and refills her glass halfway, sipping at the alcohol as a futile means of calming her racing heart.

“No children, eh?” Thomas finally comments, taking her glass from her and draining the rest of the liquid. She watches his throat bobs as he drinks, and finds she must swallow for her throat is inexplicably dry. “That’s something we have in common then. But, from the sound of it, your situation is far more frustrating than my own. You see, where I come from the idea of having no children is considered to be wonderful.”

She cannot help but laugh at that, a brief, fleeting sound. It is a far cry from the fake amusement she has mastered for Clive’s benefit. There is no business disagreement that a pretty wife who laughs at exactly the right time cannot solve, and in this at least she has proven to be remarkably useful.

“Come on,” Thomas says, placing his glass solidly down on the table and pushing his chair back. His shoulders automatically straighten when he stands, a soldier’s posture if she has ever seen one. This is a man always poised for a fight. “Let’s go somewhere.” She cannot deny how intrigued she is by such a remark, and perhaps, by the man giving the remark himself and so she stands and follows Thomas away from the table, glancing backwards over her shoulder for any sign of her husband.

“Tell Mr. Macmillian that his wife has gone back to their hotel,” Thomas instructs the waiter. No one besides her sees, but he slips a pound note into the waiter’s open hand, a bribe to ensure his silence.

Once they are outside in the fresh air, Thomas lights another cigarette before offering it to Grace. This time she takes it and puffs on it slowly as she contemplates the man in front of her. “Where are we really going?” she asks him, shivering somewhat. Her dress is beautiful, but like the majority of her wardrobe, it is not practical whatsoever. Before answering her, Thomas shrugs out of his coat and places it delicately over her shoulders, brushing an errant curl behind her ear.

“Your hotel,” he tells her, placing a hand on the small of her back. “That is, if you’d be so kind as to lead the way.”

Her hotel. Her hotel, when he had previously boasted of having a room. Her heart races, so fast she is surprised Thomas cannot hear it. She is uncertain whether she is frightened of the prospect of being alone with a man who is essentially a stranger to her, or whether she is excited over the endless possibilities that are now playing out in her mind. If they go back to her hotel, back to the room she shares with her husband, there is a likely chance that Clive shall happen upon them. It is nearing eight o’clock now, and smoking cigars and talking politics shall not occupy her husband for much longer.

But judging from the look in Thomas’ eyes, if they go back to her hotel she will not care whatsoever if Clive does happen upon them. And so she begins to walk, heels clicking on the sidewalk and cigarette firmly placed between her lips. After a moment, Thomas follows.

\---

When she moans his name, a breathless “Thomas”, her expensive dress now lying crumpled on the floor, the man in question pulls back from her, a hand cupping her cheek. “I think you’d better call me Tommy,” he quips, before leaning back down to kiss her.

His thrusts are anything but slow, and Grace delights in digging her nails into the tender flesh of his upper back.

When Clive returns she feigns sleep. It is a terrible ruse, but her husband doesn’t think anything of it, drunkenly stumbling around their hotel room.

\---

They try their utmost to be careful, Grace entirely uncertain if her rendezvous with Tommy Shelby could ever be anything but physical, but somehow Clive discovers them. Tommy is a man of note, and despite her insistence that their meetings be strictly contains to private places, there have been times when they have met publicly for dinner, Grace unflinching as she lies to Clive about her whereabouts. And businessmen gossip more than their wives, especially about pretty women they see dining with the infamous Tommy Shelby from Small Heath, an upstart gypsy they declare as reaching for far more than he deserves.

Tommy has multiple rooms within the city, and one night Clive discovers them within one. Tommy is slightly late, the clock ticking over past their scheduled meeting time, and when he enters the room Grace cannot resist querying him about where he has been. Tommy merely laughs, shrugging out of his jacket and asking her if this is how it is going to be, her waiting at home and asking him ‘What time do you call this?’, a rare grin appearing on his lips as he teases her. As she stands to pour them both a drink, Grace cannot deny the shiver that runs through her caused by the realisation that Tommy has thought of a future in which they are together, and is comfortable enough with such thoughts to share them with her. One drink poured, she turns to Tommy and presses a kiss to his lips, an action Tommy is initially startled by but quickly reciprocates.

They are still both fully clothed, Grace’s lipstick smudged somewhat, and she is laughing, a glass of whiskey in her hand, when her husband barges through the door, face red. What follows is a flurry of insults, directed purely at her, Clive grabbing her arm and attempting to drag her out of the room. He’s been drinking, and excessively for she can smell the liquor on his breath, and his grip is tight enough to hurt.

She will never be able to remember exactly who threw the first punch, but the scuffle ends with her husband on the floor, clutching desperately at his nose. Tommy is breathing heavily, looming over him, but Clive looks directly at her as blood drips down his face. “I want a divorce,” he manages to demand as he struggles to stand. “Do you hear me?” he shouts. “I want a divorce, you fucking whore!”

Tommy slams the door in Clive’s face, bracing himself against it. His palms are bloodied and most likely staining the wood, but Grace doesn’t move towards him. She collapses on the settee, unblinking.

After a moment, she laughs. Tommy turns slowly around at the sound, and she shakes her head, eyes filling with tears that she is determined not to spill. “The night we met,” she murmurs, “you called me a whore. Do you remember?”

Tommy walks over to her slowly, kneeling before her. He takes her hands in his, gentle in a way she suspects only a select few are aware of. “I do,” he tells her, quiet. His knuckles are bruised, the skin surrounding them broken.

“I am not a whore,” she declares, more to herself. I am not a whore, she thinks, squeezing Tommy’s hands. She will happily give Clive his divorce, even if that means her name is besmirched from New York to London. Perhaps in the beginning, a part of her thought she could come to love Clive, given time, but circumstances have seen to the destruction of such a hope. She knows that Clive blames her for their childless state, and no matter how hard he tried to reassure her of his love, she is more than aware that his fondness for her quickly shifted into annoyance – for else would he have wanted a wife for, if not to provide him with children? He is the sole Macmillian son, and so it is upon him to continue the family line.

Tommy looks up at her, hair mussed. She smooths it down, cupping his cheek tenderly. He says nothing, but she does not want him to. She _doesn't_ need his reassurance.

As they stand in unison the diamond dangling from her left hand drops to the floor, but neither of them bother to retrieve it.

\---

Grey is the only word she can use to describe Small Heath. The sky is grey above her, the smoke billowing out of the next street over is grey and pungent, and the ground beneath her is grey.  The door that Tommy raps a sharp knock onto is also grey, and entirely nondescript. The house inside is just as ordinary as they walk through it, until Tommy opens a set of doors and everything is a bustle of activity, men everywhere, voices chattering. When Tommy’s presence is finally noted everyone quickly moves, discarding their papers and ending their conversations, hurrying past them until the large room is entirely empty.

She looks sideways at Tommy, eyebrow quirked in silent questioning. In response, Tommy checks the time on his pocket watch and straightens his shoulders, a hand coming to resting on the small of her back as he leads her slowly to the front of the room. A small group begin to trickle into the room just as she is about to ask Tommy what is happening, all of them eyeing her with what Grace knows to be suspicion.

“This is Grace,” Tommy announces, standing by her side. The backs of their fingers brush together, a gesture of unwavering support. A sea of confused faces stare back at them, aside for the dark-haired woman busy nursing the baby in her arms, and several mouths open as if to speak, but Tommy continues before anything can be said.

“Grace,” he tells her, pointing to each of his family members in turn, “this is Arthur, John, his wife Esme, Ada, our aunt Polly and her son Michael. And this,” he says, clapping a young boy on the back with the easiness Grace remembers Seamus used to treat her with, “is Finn.” Finn ducks away from Tommy’s touch, grinning far more easily than his brother is able to.

Polly lights a cigarette, mouth thinning in obvious annoyance. Ada steps forward to quickly embrace Grace, an action she is somewhat startled by. Flecks of white powder lingering in his moustache, Arthur asks her, “Do you know how to shoot a gun?” John laughs sharply at his brother’s question, a toothpick firmly wedged between his teeth.

Grace shakes her head, Tommy’s fingers interlacing with hers. “No, I don’t,” she tells them all, fully aware that in comparison to them she is lacking in certain aspects, in abilities that are no doubt crucial to their continued success. Perhaps in another life there would have been a reason for her to learn how to shoot. As Clive’s wife, there was never any need for her to do anything aside from look presentable and smile.

But everything is different now, and so she will need to be different too. “I don’t know how to shoot a gun, I don’t know how to threaten a man. But I’m good with numbers, I know all the right things to say and when to say them, and as for the rest,” she informs everyone, looking sideways at Tommy, “I’ve been told that I’m a quick learner.”

Tommy’s mouth quirks upwards at her words, and he nods sharply. “Right. John,” he instructs, with an ease that stems from the war, “tell everyone what Sabini is up to.”

Silently, Grace moves away from his side to take a seat, smoothing down her dress as she sits. Her hand lingers over her stomach for a brief heartbeat, before she laces her fingers together, trying her best to pay attention to everything that is being discussed.

She’ll tell him tonight. 

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe in 2018 I’ll stop being bitter af about Grace’s death. 
> 
> Maybe, instead, I’ll start being bitter af over the whole Tommy/Lizzie + daughter bullshit. Like, seriously, if SK wanted us to like the Tommy/Lizzie relationship, maybe he shouldn't have had Lizzie be disrespected by Tommy almost 24/7. Just saying.


End file.
